Igraine

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

He's so darn cute when he's giddy! *reaches up to pinch Hellis' cheeks, because the guy's just so dang tall*

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Clumsywordsmith said
Someone's gonna have to scoop up all the pieces! The main trick will be sorting through the combination of human and canine organs.

*cringes* >< Oh I can't wait to post, but I'll give others a bit of time to jump in first...

Loki's Laugh

So looking forward to it! *grins* But yeah, you have a thing or two to work out there, I can wait patiently, not a problem at all!

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

DotCom said
Wow. So action. Much exciting. Wow.

Indeed, DogeCom. O.o...

Loki's Laugh

I'm so glad Idle, Eyja is so much fun to write for! All my Viking ladies are really, just lots of fun - but there's so much more a child can 'get away with' that grown-ups simply... Can't? XD

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

That was brilliant Dot! I loved the image, and I just have this image in my head now, of Veti panicking just a little, praying under her breath, "Notachewtoynotachewtoynotachewtoy..."

Good morning all! *waves* I'm headed off for the day, so no breakfasts involved yet but whatever gets caught on the road, but maybe some lunch, hmm?

Loki's Laugh

I took a [what I hope is] small liberty with Loker. Nothing grand, just something I hoped he'd allow to indulge a little girl. But if you have any problem at all Idle? Please, by all means let me know - edits are quick, easy and painless!

And it wasn't midterms, it was finals (my school works in five 10-week terms every year), but yeah, pretty hellish nonetheless >< But I've a few free days now before the term starts again, and I'll be around to write far more should anyone get anything up. So sorry your vacation wasn't all it could be Idle, but glad you're feeling some better at the very least (overworked, but physically healing? >< )

Loki's Laugh

Her arm still wrapped about Svala, Hallerna allowed a respectful distance between herself and her daughter, and the two men in all Trellesborg for whom she held a genuine debt of gratitude. Loker had said he wished words with Orran, and she pulled Svala into her cloak like she was not much more than a little girl anymore, savoring the warmth of her eldest daughter for a few moments more while she still could.

Hallerna had not missed the lingering eyes of Ragnar's two young raiders. One seemed little more than a boy to her eyes, no older than her son Tore had been, with his laughing eyes and his easy smile. The elder did not let his eyes linger though, respect - she could only hope - curbing any leering gazes. Her husband Sven had indulged her and, in another world, another life, would have indulged her further still, keeping Svala with them for yet another couple years at the least until just the perfect husband came for their incomparable Little Swallow. They were well enough off that there was no need for the dowry Svala's nuptials would have brought.

And Sven would deny his Hallerna nothing at all, no least thing at all if it were in his power to give.

But that indulgence of her whims had cost Svala a vital measure of safety. This night, it could have very well cost her life. Hallerna shivered once more, wrapping her arms tighter still about Svala a moment longer, closing her eyes with the subtle pain of seeing her own brash, selfish foolishness in such keen, intimate detail.

And Svala only laughed, and hugged her mother tighter still in response. "Madir, I can't breathe," she whispered. Hallerna's eyes widened in surprise as she stepped back, and began to chuckle warmly herself. Lost some moments to her own thoughts, Hallerna looked up to realize Orran and Loker had shared what words they would, and the housekarl had turned into the healing house.

"Orran?" Hallerna called, walking to the painted man with Svala alongside her. "Orran - oh, you must collect your things, but tonight? It would be an honor to offer you dinner this evening. I cannot promise anything near to some grand feast, but it will be hot and good and filling. And Svala has even made the bread herself - I hear tell it is very, very good."

Hallerna winked playfully at her daughter, before she nodded quickly toward the healing house. "And Anndrais too of course - though I doubt anything would pry him from Tora at all, much less sustenance. But you could bring him something to eat if you would - even he must be exhausted by now. And for Tora as well if you will, if the poor girl can down a bit of food at all, it would only do her unending good."

"Please, when you collect your things of course. It would be a pleasure to break bread with you tonight, and share what fare our small home has to offer, in thanks."

*****

"Loker!" Eyja beamed brightly at the auburn-haired giant she recognized from this very morning, the very man who so wisely recognized all her undeniable skill at bearing his ale without a single drop spilt! She had only just caught his eye when he'd glanced her way while she played their made-up game with Dagny. But once she had his gaze, she was reluctant to let it go so quickly.

Besides, something seemed just a little... Off.

Dagny's small hand still in her own, Eyja strode with all the purpose an eight-year old girl can possibly muster to the housekarl, fiery red curls bouncing all about her shoulders where they escaped the confines of her long-loosened braid. She only released Dagny's hand long enough to wrap her arms tightly about Loker's waist, hugging him with all her small strength, for no better reason at all that he seemed heavy, weighted down by... By... She knew not what really, some sadness. And it simply didn't suit him at all.

"Come here," she said almost imperiously, as if an eight-year old little girl had any right way in the world to demand a single thing of a grown man, a freeborn Dane, a seasoned raider and the housekarl of the Jarl of this fort.

"No silly, down here. C'mon, a little further - don't worry Loker. I won't hurt you or nothin'." That list of accomplishments and titles seemed to matter little to Eyja as she waved him closer, and closer still, until he might finally bend to the little girl's height.

The tips of her small fingers wiped furiously at the worry lines that creased the housekarl's forehead, between his brows and the suddenly grim set of his mouth. And where good ale had once dribbled through that heavy beard, Eyja pushed gently at the corners of his mouth, forcing them upward time and again, her own little brow furrowed in concentration.

"There now... Hold it. Just hold it right there... Perfect! See Dagny?" Eyja's face brightened like the summer sun at the sight. "Loker's face was meant for smiles. Not frowns. See?"

Eyja folded her arms over her chest in perfect satisfaction, setting back just a little to admire the results of all her 'hard work.'

Pieces of 8: Bones of the North

Heroes said he'd be posting tonight, so I'd give him the opportunity to do so before posting again right away!

Tides of Dusk: A Piratical Tale of Fantasy

Name: Antonia (Yes, she does have a surname, but she will not tell it so you may not have it. And the one thing you may trust is that if she does give one? That is assuredly a lie.)

Age: 24

Appearance: This of course, will vary on the circumstances. The only aspects that never change, are the thick, lustrous mane of ebony hair, skin the deep warm color of caramel, and those calculating grey eyes.

Antonia is quite at her ease in grand finery and pale make-up, her hair straightened and then beautifully tended about her face, grey eyes shining and imperious. She could be the epitome of an exotic European courtesan, moving with an unerring grace through noble courts and gentrified plantations alike. Her French is Parisian perfect, as are her elegant manners, her lovely deep singing voice and her skill at the harpsichord in any proper parlor.

On any other given day, she might seem bedraggled and worn, yet as defiant and loud and unrepentant as any bawdy woman, half-dressed and bold as you please, wandering eyes and carefully displayed flashes of skin and breast and lush, red lips calling a man to heaven or damnation - if he honestly cared which it might be for the night, or if he'd wake up in the morning far lighter of riches for his troubles.

Though on the Dusk Skate alone, she will seem little more than a woman of strangely mixed origins, her thick hair tied back from her face, hanging to the middle of her back. Quietly she goes about lending a hand where needed, dressed in obviously borrowed men's clothing, a large loose shirt of ivory linen and brown pants tucked into leather boots that had seen a good deal of hard use, a simple hooded, woolen cloak against what weather might come. While she maintains a large trunk of a wardrobe in the hold, Antonia seems otherwise content to spend a good deal of time on ship in the crow's nest, where Captain Lightfoot has seen fit to employ her keen eyes as lookout.

Crew Position: Spymaster/ crow's nest look-out

Background: Because she will not speak of it but for a very few and rare circumstances - and she will certainly volunteer nothing (and again, if it is volunteered willingly? Be assured once more, 'tis a lie), the details of her parentage or childhood are unspoken. But for whatever Captain Lightfoot might share of their original meeting with anyone aboard the ship, or even of their quieter conversations, Antonia will not. Still, she's taken to lightheartedly calling him her 'lovely man,' or 'Silver Fish' or even 'Captain Silver Fish' if she were feeling particularly officious in the moment. He doesn't seem to mind too terribly, after all.

But since she will not speak of her origins - not even with her 'lovely man' - then I'll not write more on the matter here either. Surmise what you will, of the woman you 'see' before you, and know she'll have a mask - lovely or terrible - for all occasions, and formulate a lie as easily as she breathes. Antonia is obviously well-educated, surprisingly so even, and speaks French beautifully, fluently, and but for that thick, warm Creole accent she speaks English just as well. The only other thing of note might, perhaps, be the fact that if the Dusk Skate ever moored in Martinique, Antonia will flat out refuse to leave the ship's confines, or set foot on that island's soil, and no amount of promised gold or dire threats will move her.